


Thanks, We Needed a Reason to Eat Cake

by xactibeetle



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Illustrations, Party, Pining (if it can be called that), specifically their 1st sweep anniversary one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xactibeetle/pseuds/xactibeetle
Summary: Your name is KANKRI VANTAS, and tonight marks the FIRST-SWEEP ANNIVERSARY of entering the hellscape that is SGRUB ALPHA.
Relationships: Kankri Vantas/Latula Pyrope (unrequited)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Dancestor Mini Bang 2020





	Thanks, We Needed a Reason to Eat Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the wonderful artist on [Tumblr](https://its-me-ej.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/eenjustice)!

You’ve always relied on your internal clock to awake you. It’s not like you have many other options; your planet’s covered in a haze so thick it’s impossible to tell if there’s any dark/light cycle. An alarm timepiece is virtually useless, seeing as time doesn’t make much sense here and barely seems linear anymore. 

Crawling out of the ‘coon, it’s on with the pants. Your teammates have expressed some true displeasure over your chosen apparel, but to you they are efficient, and stylish (though Porrim would have a fit if you told her), and, frankly, you’re quite fond of your belt.

You go about the rest of your evening routine, brushing your fangs, noting their particular bluntness once again, a quick comb to tame your coarse hair and rid yourself of the last clinging bits of sopor, and end up getting a little sentimental while making breakfast.

Your name is KANKRI VANTAS, and tonight marks the FIRST-SWEEP ANNIVERSARY of entering the hellscape that is SGRUB ALPHA.

Passing time was a little… difficult to keep track of in the Medium. Again, time is pretty funky (Latula would say that, right? Funky?), and, after a while, everything just seemed to blur together. It was Aranea who devotedly kept her calendar, counting each rotation of her Land (they all spin together, in unison, like a synchronized dance. A stark contrast to the trolls that inhabit them).

That's how you know what today is. How all of you knew, as Serket was certainly not quiet about it, ever since she first pointed out the approaching date a couple of wipes ago. 

Many of you didn’t think it was a worthy cause for celebration. Yet, here you are.

The first sweep anniversary of your “team” entering the game. It’s surreal to think of it like that.

You can’t help but feel as if there will be more to come.

Preparing to leave, you remove the party punch you took the time to alchemetize the ingredients for yesterday morning from your hungertrunk. It was a sizable chunk of grist spent for something so trivial. Far from the extravagant weapons and other elaborate creations you’ve seen your teammates create with the same method (especially from Horuss, who was on an engineering joyride for the first few perigees. Before even the novelty of the slightly more interesting aspects of the game wore off). Admittedly, you’ve never had much of a natural affinity for farming grist or alchemetizing. 

LOBAH is a sticky, smelly, magma gloopy ball of sulphur and is generally not the most wonderful place to be. You think you have a right to say that, considering you’ve been living here for a full sweep, to the day.

None of your teammates have really spent a significant amount of time here, either, and you’ll risk the supposition that the land’s climate might have impacted that.

Similarly, you never seem to congregate on planets like LOWAA or LOBAF, either.

Though you’ll admit that neither Cronus nor Mituna are the most popular among the group.

You’ve long since installed a more permanent fixture of transportation on your land. Everyone has, by now, because zigzag inclines with miscellaneous bits and bobs stacked atop each other to reach the portal above each hive, then scouting out the second gate might have worked for a while, but would now be terribly inconvenient.

The transportalizers had been one of your team’s “moments.” You kind of worked together! Now there is a system that makes everyone accessible, at all times. A good thing, for tonight, because the original route taking portals on each land would… would have you traipsing through almost everyone else’s planets to get to your destination. And take an absolutely _atrocious_ amount of time.

You step up to the platform, bowl full of sugary, fruity liquid you’re hoping not to spill on yourself cradled in your arms.

\---

You arrive on LOGAD, Meenah’s land, succeeding in spilling as little punch as possible. Which means there’s still about ¾ left, and you came away relatively clean. The weird deconstruction and recolescing of matter can get a little bumpy. 

This transportalizer is positioned on top of the hive, despite that being the issue they were supposed to solve in the first place. However, an even bigger issue would be to force your non-aquatic friends to swim through the millions of gallons of saltwater filling the space between the structure and the iridescent glass bowl encasing Meenah’s hive. Imagine! This solution, though still with its problems, was highly preferable when threatened with the persecution of those who were not hatched with the biological… advantages? no, simply differences, of the especially cooler hues.

Atop the monstrous dwelling (at least, a relatively small section above water. It’s quite like an iceberg), you find that there’s already an entry open, waiting. You wonder if they’re expecting trolls, like you. But that wouldn’t make much sense; you’re only here early because Porrim finally accepted your proffered help with setting things up for the party later tonight.

A more plausible explanation is that your sea-faring teammate simply left it open, and forgot. A quick investigative look around confirms that, yes, there are half-cracked windows and entryways peppering the angular sides of her expansive hive. Inherited by blood (what a problematic topic), the structure is reminiscent of the reefs under the ocean back on Beforus (is it alive? does it grow like coral, you wonder? is it dead now?)

And, as you navigate the twists and turns of the hallways (your team holds meetings here, sometimes. There’s a designated, previously devoid of purpose block for that. That’s where you’re headed, now.) you can’t help but think that it must get lonely, here, by oneself. 

Not that you feel symphathy, let alone _pity_ for Meenah. You are simply making observations about the building. Meenah is very hyper-social, anyway.

This hive, in fact, is (was?) a palace, and fits every definition of it. Wide hallways, walls encrusted with pearls and gold veining; magnificent spiral staircases; and doors hiding blocks containing who knows what. Your footsteps echo. It all feels very empty.

Empty, luckily for you. It would really stink if you were to 1) open the wrong door and release a torrent of pent up water or 2) not do anything and still get caught up in a flood. Terribly tragic, seven sweep old Kankri Vantas, drowned by way of inconsiderate behavior.

Porrim, already in the aforementioned meeting block, one that reminds you vaguely of a conference room where a drab, depressing office party might be held. Except with more pink (fuschia, to be exact) and gold (not faux, but real, beyond doubt).

“Oh, how nice of you to show up,” Porrim greets. Like always, you cannot tell if she’s being sarcastic, or just using her normal tone of voice. Or, rather, lack of indicitive tone.

Her facial expression is very little help, settled in it’s default… you search for the adjective to describe it. You once heard Latula describe it as her “rbf,” or “resting bitch face,” as she explained to you. 

There are many problems with this particular phrase, but you will not repeat it aloud and, you justify to yourself, it does seem to be the most accurate description.

There’s another block off to the side, where a second troll makes her appearance, calling out a welcome of her own in the process.

Meenah stands, silenced, in the doorway between the party room and what you believe to be the mealblock. The door that she had shoved open swings wildy behind her, creaking.

Her gaze is fixed right on you. Apparently, whatever newcomer she expected to find had arrived, it was not the one she found. Meenah did not want you. And she would make that displeasure known, as is her typical fashion.

“Ughhh. Seariously, Maryam? You let that buoy in on this?”

“Apologies, Meenah, if you were unaware. I agree, Porrim should have told you that she contacted me privately about this opportunity. It tends to be a habit of her’s, to forgo communication with others to forge her own path.”

You have a few more things to say, but Porrim takes over, addressing Meenah directly. “Yes, I did. Obviously, it was the right choice. Latula’s still not here, and you’re busy with the cake.”

With Latula on the pan, you open your mouth to ask after her (she did say she was going to help set up, right?), since she, as Porrim stated, is evidently not here. But Meenah beats you to it. Drat. Why does she care anyway?

At least you can come to her defense. “Latula may have slept late, or left her hive before realizing she’d forgotten something, or--” 

“Oar, she coulda slipped and cracked her nugbone.” Meenah’s grin is sharp-toothed and maniacal, so overly playing up the stereotype of those with her tyrian blood.

_“Meenah!”_

“Totally coulda happened.”

“Both of you!” Porrim snaps. “Quit it! I’m going to go get her, and you two better not kill each other while I’m gone. Either of you god-tiered sounds like our worst nightmare.”

“I swear, sometimes you reely do sound like a matron, straight from the caverns. ‘Be on your best behavior, grublings! Or you’ll be fin time out!’ Lemme have a little fun, will ya?” Meenah snaps.

You’re familiar enough with Porrim to know she doesn’t show her anger explicitly. Or, not often, anyway. Here, her nostrils flare and her gaze is steely.

Meenah’s look is just as cool as she stares back. You look between the two. Surely Meenah knew how much that barb would affect Porrim? You thought they were friends?

Porrim is the first to… not quite relent, nor really forgive, but with a callous parting (and subsequent assurance that yes, she would be back) and departure, seemed to put it behind her for the moment.

Meenah stomps back into her probably large, flashy, gourmet meal preparation block. It’s almost comical how her swinging door is incapable of slamming, just squeaking, but you imagine it does anyway.

You make an executive decision to store that whole exchange in the back of your pan rather than try and process it now. Have a look around the block instead!

There’s not much here. What you brought and the cake that’s been mentioned seem to be the only foodstuffs. Otherwise, there’s a boombox settled on the end of the table and a banner laying on the floor, yet to be put up.

The banner looks like Porrim’s craft. Not very many on your team are capable of that kind of artistry. 

Not that they aren’t creative, of course! Just that particular handiwork concerning cloth and embroidery seems uniquely Porrim.

It reads, simply, “First Sweep Anniversary.” Like a statement. Like a label. Something everyone should inherently know and understand the meaning of.

Something akin to a holiday, you guess. Though you're not sure if you, or any of your teammates, really, view it as such. Tonight is definitely _not_ Twelfth Perigee’s, that’s for certain.

The ostentatious boombox, judging by the color and bedazzlement is, without a doubt, Meenah’s.

You can’t hang the banner yourself; at least, not without it being inevitably slightly crooked, then infuriate you when you shift it, because now the other side is too low but then you adjust it again and it just gets worse because you don’t have the perspective-

Anyway, the banner can wait until Porrim gets back.

You sincerely hope Latula will bring something to brighten up the room. Like her, just her and her personality should be enough. Or her smile. They can both be used, whatever sounds best at the time.

You’re proud of that one.

But you also mean that you hope she brings something in a more literal, materialistic sense.

Since it doesn’t seem like there’s anything for you to do, and there’s a certain unsettling quality to a block occupied only by oneself, your mind turns in on itself and falls back on your previous train of thought. About the sentiment expressed in the figurative phrase. But, perhaps it could be literal? Like, if you literally told her the figurative statement. 

You wonder what her reaction would be. Would she be flattered?

The door to the block opens, startling you. 

It’s Porrim, usually the epitome of grace, looking slightly disgruntled, standing in the entryway.

“Her lusus was a dragon, correct?”

You assume she’s asking you, but you don’t know if it’s a rhetorical question. It doesn’t sound like one. You give her a hesitant nod.

“I can see the resemblance.”

“Where is she?”

“She slept late, but she’s getting ready and on her way.” A pause. Porrim’s nose wrinkles as her face scrunches up. “I think. It was hard to tell. She’s definitely not an evening troll.”

\---

It’s about a half an hour until Latula graces you with her presence. By now, Meenah’s put her cake in the oven. You know this because she announced that she did, then proceeded to sit on top the table and make casual conversation. Because she was bored. Any previous qualms between the two appeared to be forgotten, which baffles you. Maybe you should get them to talk it out. Mediate without encroaching on their ashen quadrants. And not imply that there was anything caliginous between them, either! 

Anyway, Latula’s dressed casually in a teal jacket with red accents (the same red as your blood, you note) and black leggings. Nothing special, but you find it cute on her nonetheless.

She also brought foldable party hats. You smile privately, to yourself. Leave it up to her to think of something so endearingly adorable.

You and Porrim had already hung the banner, bickered and adjusted until it was satisfactory in its levelness, and stacked chairs against the wall to make more space, considering most trolls probably won’t opt for sitting.

There’s an exchange of warm greetings, and Porrim thanks her for her contribution. However, it’s made quickly apparent that the hats are all she brought. A nice thought given to accessories, but nothing else.

Meenah takes a moment peruse the block with a judging look.

“Whale, it’s naut very colorful, is it? Where’s the decor?”

“We have. The banner?” Porrim tries, looking a little hesitant.

“Porrim asked me to bring refreshments. I was never alerted to a need for decorations. Left in the metaphorical dark, I cannot be held to blame for the lack of such. It would be especially rude considering I only hopped aboard this ‘party wagon,’ so to speak very recently, and was unaware of any planning made before two or so nights ago, not that there was much, ” you intone.

Latula gestured vaguely toward the room’s furniture centerpiece, where the party hat templates lay.

Meenah sighs (only a little exaggeratedly). “I guess if a gill wants somefin done, she’s gotta do it herself.” You don’t know exactly what she plans to do, but she stalks out of the block and out of the hive with such purpose you don’t question it. Or, rather, more accurately, she didn’t give you time. 

The former Beforan heiress has a flair for the dramatic. Any of your fellow players could attest to that.

The block is uncomfortably silent, now.

“So how is your night?” Latula calls into the void.

“I’ve spent most of it with you,” Porrim responds.

“Mine is just fine, thank you,” your answer is a little stiff, even to your aurals. “How’s yours?”

“Alright.”

Quietness falls back over the group, though your pan is still whirring. Planning speeches about such and such, debates over this or that with whoever, memos… until the door opens again. Everyone has been in and out all night; some don’t even announce their presence and are liable to spook someone! 

This time it’s Meenah, looking decidedly more roughed up than Porrim. 

“Meenah! What happened?”

Meenah grumbles something under her breath, decaptchalogs a bundle of what appear to be scraps of tarp and/or some type of fabric. She passes them off to Latula, and you mosey over to get a better look.

The “decorations” that Meenah has returned with appear to be a varied assortment of… tarp? canvas? in every color of the rainbow, slashed and dashed stripes, polka dots, zigzags, and all other imaginable patterns.

“Where did you even get these?” Porrim asks, dangling a scrap between two claws, a look of (what you’re interpreting as) disgust on her face. You nearly agree aloud with her; they seem to have no color scheme, no coherent similarities beyond their randomness to bind them together. The edges are jagged and ripped. They truly are pretty ugly (that would be your favorite oxymoron, except you don’t pick favorites among such things).

“LOTAM.” (Her first intelligible response upon return).

Things make much more sense now. These scraps are actually pieces of tent ripped from their stakes. That also explains the colors. Almost every color in the spectrum could be found on Kurloz’s planet.

“And those scratches?” Porrim inquires.

Meenah sneers, “Imps. Stupid motherglubbers ambushed me.”

Well, they’re still scraps. But now they’re scraps with a purpose!

Porrim clears her throat, folds and sets the tarp gingerly back atop the pile with signature neatness before placing them all on the center dining plateau.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’ll be alright. Imps are not the worst things, annoying as they are.” 

The four (which drops to three during the process) of you go about spicing up the walls of the block with the tent and the magic of duct tape.

The hats don’t take too long. There’s only twelve of you, after all. So only four each.

With the banner hung and hats folded, it looks like your job is just about done, save Meenah’s pièce de résistance. Though that is currently in the frosting stage, Meenah works efficiently. 

You glance over at Latula, who’s engrossed with something on her palmhusk, probably having tuned out anything anyone’s said in the past few minutes.

A ping from your own palmhusk gives you some insight as to what Latula’s doing.

A new memo on Trollian. Joy. These thing’s have a habit of getting… chaotic.

coastingConquista [CC]  has opened memo on board fru1ty r1ght3ous blowh4rd f4ctory 

CC: thanks to me beaches  
CC: youve got yoar fun for the night   
GA: Meenah, alo+ng with Latula, Kankri, and myself  
CC: ya them  
AT: yo… thats cool yall came through…  
AT: d1dnt know 1f the party would actually happen haha   
AG: Meenah! I’m pleasantly surprised.   
CA: ill go if you do meen  
AA: 行きたくない   
AT: damz...  
AC: =^._.^= < HOW DOPE IS THIS PARTY THO  
AC: (=^-ω-^=) < I DONT WANT TO WASTE MY PURRECIOUS TIME   
CC: are u talkin to me??  
CA: yea  
CC: bruv  
CT: (;≧Д≦) < I find myself agreeing with Leijon.  
CT: (ಠ益ಠ;) < Is this “party” worth a lengthy social trot to LOGAD?  
CC: i legit hosted the dang seabang why WOULDNT I B-E T)(-ER-E  
GC: 1tll b3 pr3tty fr34k1ng dop3 m3u!! >8]  
CC: it aint all that great tbh

This is insanity. Why is everyone talking all at once. Text in a myriad of colors flashes by, too quick for your oculars to make sense of.

Oh well. Time to add your two cents.

CG: The 9riginal purp9se 9f this mem9, 6ef9re y9u all 6ecame s9 9vereager, was t9 inf9rm y9u that we are ready t9 start. That is, 9f c9urse, 9nly if every9ne has RSVP’d. We w9uld n9t like f9r any9ne t9 6e f9g9tten and left 9ut while tending t9 9ther duties and wh9’s intenti9ns were t9 sh9w.  
TC: OKAY BUT FISHBITCH  
TC: WTF WAS THAT  
GC: wh4t  
TA: Y35.  
AA: HM?  
CC: idk what yoar talkin aboat  
TA: ON LOTAM  
CC: ;-;

CG’s stark red text is swept away by the next exchange going on. You bet no one even saw it. Or bothered to read it, if they did.

Is no one listening? Seriously? This is why you can’t have nice things. You’re trying to tell them--

TC: TRULY THE MOST GRACEFUL CREATURE IN THE SEA LMAO  
TC: ow   
TA: dud3  
AC: (=｀ω´=) < DID MEW ACTUALLY LAUGH   
GC: th4s th3 good sh1t dog  
TA: 7h15 15 7h3 c43g4r 570r3 h0w g00d c4n 17 b3  
GA: who+ actually laughs when they type “lmao+?”  
TC: ...ME  
CC: i hate u  
TA: 1 k33p 73ll1ng y0u y0u 5h0uld 74k3 7h053 7h1ng5 0u7  
CA: <3<  
CC: gag  
AG: I also heard that Meenah has graced us all 8y 8aking one of her cakes! I’m quite sure it will 8e well worth it ::::)  
CT:（;≧皿≦）< Ah. How kind of her. And how r*de it foald be of me to refuse such a gift from one of her... imperial status.  
AT: horuss... 1 can smell your sweat…   
AA: 彼はあなたと一緒ですか？  
AT: um  
GC: 3v3ryon3 sp4m ur qu4ds publ1cly to 4nnoy cronus

The memo is being updated too fast for you to keep up with, about four different conversations at once. you’re not really in the mood to scroll up, read through, and track them all. This memo has a purpose and this is not it!

CG: EVERY9NE QUIT TYPING. LISTEN.

A pause. Trollian doesn’t show anyone as responding. Good. Without a virtual whistle (wouldn’t it be wonderful if Trollian had one?), this is the only alternative. You dislike having to get loud and authoritative (even if through volumeless text), but you will if the need arises. You are the leader of this ragtag group, after all.

CG: Meenah created this mem9 simply t9 inf9rm y9u that 9ur team’s First Sweep Anniversary party, 9f which s9me 9f y9u might n9t 6e aware 9f, is ready t9 truely 6egin 9nce every9ne wh9 wishes t9 has arrived. F9r th9se wh9 are unaware:  
CG: Several mem6ers 9f the team decided it w9uld sufficiently raise 9ur spirits as a wh9le, and, perhaps, m9tivate us t9 c9mplete the next stage 9f the game 6y h9lding a c9mmem9rative event centered ar9und 9ur entry.  
CG: That night, 9ne sweep ag9, was t9night. Theref9re, the event-- the “party” --will 6e held in the meeting6l9ck 9f Meenah’s hive sh9rtly. There is n9 designated time scheduled f9r y9u all t9 arrive, 6ut everything is set up s9 y9u may start t9 make y9ur way 9ver. 6e it in whatever f9rm 9f travel is m9st c9nvenient and c9mf9rta6le f9r y9u.  
CG: There is, 9f c9urse, n9 rush. While we w9uld like f9r every9ne t9 sh9w up, we understand if y9u are 6usy and cann9t make it. Like the arrival time, there is n9t a set h9ur 9r minute t9 send (p9litely, 9f c9urse) every9ne 6ack hive. S9, please, if at all p9ssi6le, attempt t9 attend at least a fracti9n 9f it.  
CG: And, yes, Meenah has 6aked a cake.   
AC: /ᐠ｡ⱉ｡ᐟ\ﾉ < YES!!!  
AC: (=^ ◡ ^=) < I READ NONE OF THE OTHER STUFF BUT YES!!!   
GC: th4s th3 good sh1t dog  
TA: 7h15 15 7h3 c43g4r 570r3 h0w g00d c4n 17 b3  
CA: im lookin forwvard to eatin that  
CC: dude you sound like one creepy motherglubber   
CG: Meenah, if y9u w9uldn’t mind cl9sing the mem9? N9t 9nly t9 keep imp9rtant inf9rmation at the 69tt9m, 6ut als9 6ecause there really is n9 need t9 c9ntinue c9nversing 9n a pu6lic mem9.  
CC: yea for once i algae

coastingConquista [CC] has closed memo on board fru1ty r1ght3ous blowh4rd f4ctory 

You wait around together, mostly in silence, as a few of your friends begin to trickle in. They cluster together in their normal groups. For once, Damara and Rufioh don’t arrive together. The latter and Horuss do, however, which makes good sense because they are friends.

Meulin bounces in and promptly inquires about the cake. Latula, handing her a hat, informs her Meenah will be bringing it out soon. You take the opportunity to chip in, tell her that there’s punch while she waits.

Everyone else arrives, on their own time and yet quicker than you would’ve expected.

Meenah, who most of you had been trying to ignore (you believe she was trying to be sneaky, but her face pressed against the fuschia tinted viewpane set into the mealblock’s door is visible to everyone), sweeps into the commonspace with a grand flourish. The cake she holds high, like a trophy, above her head is expertly frosted in a neutral off-white. Little dollops in the familiar shade of SGRUB Alpha’s signature color sat in a ring around the bottom. Exactly one (1) small, sparkling firestick set into the center.

There are gasps from several trolls around the block, and you can understand why. With her grand entrance, Meenah has gusted a wave of the cake’s fresh-out-of-the-oven scent in your direction. 

One exclamation catches your attention in particular. The aqua, swept up in her friends excitement, and you watch as she takes a big, dramatic whiff--

and starts with realization.  
It makes your pusher ache; her face falls, but she’s quick to don her mask once more. Laughs it off, but it’s not genuine.

The accident resulting in Latula’s loss of a functioning olfactory system was just perigees ago. She must have simply forgotten.

You want to go to her, reassure her of the faultiness of troll memory, how everyone should have been more aware...

You bet no one else even noticed. Worse! If they did, they didn't care. You wouldn’t be able to tell, now, as she appears to be happy. She cracks an ingenuous joke, high-fives someone.

But you see it. There’s no way she can truly feel happy. Surely she has that same emptiness, a hole in her life.

Right?

The party carries on. You almost would think it was Twelfth Perigees up in here; the cake platter is left with only crumbs within seconds. You are quite sure everyone got a piece equal to the other’s.

You don’t feel so bad remarking upon the taste of the cake. Meenah has always been a baker, since she was hatched, she’s told you on multiple occasions. It shows through, the cake is wonderful. The punch you made is pretty good, too.

Rufioh meanders over to Meenah’s boombox. Turns the volume down a few notches.

Now you can hear bits of others' conversations. You don’t eavesdrop, because that could make someone seriously upset, but it’s hard not to hear Meulin’s ecstatic shrieks about some… book? 

You drift around, sort of. Actually, you don’t even think you’ve crossed the room. You’ve spent pretty much your whole night with Porrim and Latula, but you still keep somewhat close to them, anyway, not really feeling like you’re there.

At least, not until Latula addresses you directly. That sends a startling jolt down your support column, a cold little shiver.

“What’re you doing?”

It’s not accusatory, you don’t think. But a genuine question. What are you doing? ‘Meandering without purpose’ or ‘hanging around you for reasons’ don’t sound all that great in terms of responses.

“I-” You talkblaster opens, closes, and you find yourself lost for words.

“I don’t know,” you say. “What… what do you think I should be doing?”

Latula gives you a quizzical look. You aren’t quite sure how to interpret it, and you open your talkblaster to ask for a clearer answer when she jumps the gun and cuts you off-- 

“Dude, like, I don’t know? Try enjoying yourself or something? You’re kinda being a downer, Kankz.”

“Oh.”

You puzzle that over for a moment. Latula goes back to chattering with Porrim, seemingly forgetting you. 

Feeling a little awkward, you return to your spot against the wall, and take the opportunity to observe the others in the room. Watch and see if there is any discussion that may require your mediation.

For now, it doesn’t seem like so. 

You don’t know what happened in that moment. Since, you’ve never been able to fully relive it, go back to how it was, exactly, right then. Sometimes, very rarely, you could grasp on to an inkling of that feeling, diluted as it was. Usually, however, it was a faded, fleeting idea that you’ve never been able to recreate intentionally.

It’s like you had been watching everything from the outside, looking in through clouded glass. Now everything exploded with color. Stark and contrasting, but smoothly blending as well. You don’t see caste; there are no BUOYs, no OJAs or CIPs, no royalty, just your friends. They’re bursting with life and potential and thought and emotion. Each a different, unique individual, capable of so much on their own but as a team-

It was a wonderful cacophony. The only slightly distasteful music (is that Troll Nicki Minaj?), mixed conversations, a gentle buzz in your auriculars. 

Your friends all converse amiably, there’s no screaming, no fighting, no one is dying.

It’s an itchy nose, too warm and tingly all over sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. Your pusher is full to the brim with emotions, such a mess of emotions you couldn’t even begin to untangle them. 

You know it’s not perfect, your ragtag group will never, ever be perfect. There's something there, hovering just on the edge, a revelation about your place in the universe. But there’s a sense of rightness, in that moment. Like you know that, given the choice, you would wish to be here, now, with these trolls, messed up as you all are. 

There’s a raucous chorus of laughter to your right, and you single out one in particular. Latula, interspersed with a snort or two. Nonetheless, you find it.. endearing. It makes your pusher ache. You want to make her laugh like that. Unrestrained and genuine. Not nervous or half-humoring. 

“Uh, Kankri?”

Oh, oh. That’s her. You tilt your head up, look her in the oculars-- the oculars, her glasses have slipped a little down her freckled nose, she ‘s looking dead at you, pupils just showing the first flecks of teal--

“Are you alright?”

She asked-- not just concern but that too but mostly she’s acting as your friend, your friend-- and you care about her you do but maybe she cares too.

You drag the heels of your hand across your cheeks, swiping at the fat, pale red pearls dripping from your oculars-- when did you start to cry?-- and some of your other friends are staring, at least in your direction; it must be the color.

They know you’re a blood mutant, it’s not a secret.

You attempt to disguise your sniffles, clear your throat. Raise your chin. Smile. It’s what they would expect. What they want from you. The tips of your blunted teeth push dents in your lower lip to stop it from trembling.

“I’m… fine. Fine. Your concern is unwarranted.”

With that, anyone who hasn’t already goes back to their previous arrangements, chattering away. Past the extravagant show of an emotional breakdown off on the side wall. It’s incredible how often that happens among your, frankly, unstable friend group.

Meulin refills her cup. Reminded of your own, you set it down on the floor, scared you may drop it in your shaking. 

And she’s turning back, too, because she was in a conversation, too, but before she does--

“But thank you, Latula, nonetheless.”

That’s a smile, there, you think.

The party lasts a while longer, and you flit around, talk a bit. You keep some things in, that aren’t exactly essential to the discussion at hand. But you try to commit the topics you find problematic that arise to memory. You can put it in your memo, later.

If you have the time or energy for writing one up, you consider, as Aranea explains a realization she’d had about the philosophy of the game. You’d always carved out time to write an in depth speculation on your chosen subject for the night, your motivation welling up from an abject dissatisfaction with the way the world works.

Someone to your left mutters something in passing, and you tune back into the conversation, hoping you didn’t miss too much.

“But really, I do!” Aranea exclaimed. “I do think we have a chance at winning.”

You’ve listened, and now you deem it the time to voice your opinion. Keep it short, state your case, give your reasoning, close it off. You just need a few sentences to make a compelling argument.

But it’s not a debate, you agree with Aranea, at least right now. So you tell her that. Support your claim with your own finds derived from extrospection. 

You have more to say, but you don’t, close your talkblaster, wait for her to speak again. It’ll be easier, then, because it’s even ruder to cut someone off. Porrim’s told you this.

All in all, you think you would call it a successful conversation. Aranea introduced you to some interesting points, and you hope you’ve enlightened her as well.

Your friends don’t always appreciate your company (you know this, you know this), they are quite vocal about it. But, if you may be so presumptuous, you might say that maybe, just maybe, they didn’t mind as much tonight. 

When you’re back hive, empty punch bowl in the sink, your friends parting words still ringing in your ears, curtains drawn in favor of your indoor lighting as opposed to the hellish glow from the outside, you feel full and altogether _more_ than you have in a long time.


End file.
